I tried to come to terms with my father’s death and my melancholy state by rationalizing it. I researched and wrote about the life expectancy of minority (Latino) males in the U.S. I found that having lived to the age of 70, according to Census statistics, my father lived beyond his life expectancy by one year. It was published in the Houston Chronicle. But the exercise did not provide much solace. As I always avoid the subject of my father’s death with my immediate family, for me, like many others, grieving became a very excruciating solitary journey.
It has been years since my father died. Still, every time an acquaintance loses his father, I am sometimes overwhelmed with emotion as I relive the experience. The tears come as I recall my father singing “Ándale” to my mother when I was three years old. He brought a mariachi to the door of where we resided. Listening to Linda Ronstadt’s version of the song which appears in the Album “Canciones de Mi Padre,” (Songs of My Father) makes me feel spiritually close to my father. I often wonder if it is unhealthy to still experience such feelings.
Like many children, although not the oldest, I assumed the responsibility of caring for my parents. The proximity created a great closeness between me and my father. We learned to value each other’s point of view. And, we grew to quietly appreciate each other’s strengths and accept our weaknesses. I was very proud of him for doing the best he could and not running away from the responsibility of providing for his ten children.
I regret not having the courage to be able to verbalize how I felt about my father when he lived next door to me. Like many fathers, in his own stoic way, he expressed how he felt in small acts that children often take for granted. For me, every morning before I left to work, he would get up and clean the windshield of the vehicle I drove. At regular intervals, he would check every aspect of the vehicle to make sure that it was in safe working condition. And, knowing that I liked ice cream sandwiches, he would make sure I always had a stock of Blue Bell’s in my refrigerator.
The loss of my father taught me several things that help place the father-child relationship into perspective. I learned that fathers experience immense satisfaction in knowing that they raised children who are responsible and productive citizens. My mother would tell me that it would always please my father greatly that his last name would be mentioned in newspapers, radio and television newscasts as a result of my work. It made me realize that, regardless of the profession or trade, a child’s accomplishments bring enormous joy to a father. Every constructive act a child manifests fills a father with pride.
My father’s death also taught me that the saying “time heals all wounds” is not true. I realized that the size of the scar and the rawness of the wound are directly related to the magnitude and depth of the bond that one shared with our father. Time merely provides offspring with an accumulation of new days to get used to the idea of not having one’s father physically present. The wound never heals.
Lastly, I learned that a child’s relationship with one’s father does not end at the time of death. Death may alter the bond with our fathers, but it can never break it. Whether physically present or not, our fathers never cease to exist. Our fathers are present within us every second of the day, in our genes, in our minds and most importantly, in our hearts.
